Not a stone, just a man

By Jon Hillenbrand In Photography, Stories

But I gather no moss. I went running tonight, for the first time in a while. What was my motivation? Some show on TV of overweight British women trekking through the jungle. I didn’t have one of those moments where I said to myself, “If they can do it, so can I!” But just the idea of trekking through the jungle SAS style was enough to get me into my wicking clothes and out the door. PLUS! There was a bootleg recording of the Rage Against The Machines concert on the radio. It was great. This may sound crazy to some of you, but I’ve never listened to music as I’ve run. I like to hear things around me, especially at night. I need to keep an ear out for cars and creeps. Spent too much time living in the city I guess. But almost nothing is as motivational as Zach and his destined band rocking some Cali venue to the foundations.

Fun note; as I was running with my ultra-reliable little radio player, it fell off my belt and the battery went flying. The unit fell hard to the cement like a defeated boxer in its final round, but survived, sans battery. I immediately thought to myself, “This is why I don’t have an iPod or something.”

So by tomorrow, because of this one run, I’ll lose twenty pounds and bulk up with huge pectoral muscles and six-pack abs! Look out world. For the day shall come when I stare down from my throne with eyes of jade and coal, splintering and smoldering, and my subjects shall cower in fear of my fiery gaze. My brass chest plate, engraved with symbols of my stallions and victories, will protect my bold and conquering heart. A tight beard of black and red, sunlit with gray, stained with the best meats and cheeses of the Americas, shall not filter my roaring laughter and words of genius. Poets shall be inspired to award-winning achievement. Artists shall scribe in paint the stories of my legend. A new Renaissance shall blossom from my sword and pen.

Yet, every night, my humble heart shall cry out and I’ll grow a garden from my tears at her remembered smell, her hair, her half-closed eyes under passion’s spell. I’ll die every night if I ever made her chest rise and fall with a sigh. My battle-torn skin shall mock the memory of her smooth porcelain cheeks and skin that shall never know the crinkles of weather and age while they serve out a life-sentence of solitary within the cage of my memory, doomed to never grow old, happier or more pure.

Still, I’ll try to remember until my mind succumbs to daggers of age and teeth of time. And imagined nights of laying down, arms intertwined, protecting hands and edges smoothed soft cloud like in effervescent drama and brilliant beauty, though never happening, may quell the disastrous ocean from coming in as a tide.

What do you think?